


Tangible Memory

by ifreet



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-16
Updated: 2008-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifreet/pseuds/ifreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Empty of activity, the room felt oddly half-finished, as though without people it lost its purpose. But even so, there was the illusion of company--the room was filled with photographs. They spilled across the mantel; the frames clustered so closely together that the foremost obscured others from even the smallest distance.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangible Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [china_shop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/gifts).



Mrs. Vecchio plucked the plates from Benton's hands and shooed him out of the kitchen with the usual admonishments about guests not helping with the dishes. He gave way before her, reminded of Diefenbaker chased indoors by a territorial jay.

The noise from the dining room rose as he approached, individual voices rising from the din. He hesitated at the threshold, just out of sight. Family dinners at Ray's house were by nature chaotic affairs and nearly always included some number of extended family--though how many and who varied greatly. Tonight's gathering wasn't particularly big by Vecchio standards: Mrs. Vecchio, Francesca, Maria and Tony, their children, and two uncles, plus Ray, Diefenbaker and Ben himself. And yet he was feeling overwhelmed by the press of too many people and too many simultaneous arguments, good-natured though they maybe.

He slipped past the dining room and down the hall to the front room. All he needed was a moment alone to regroup. That was, after all, the real reason he'd taken the dishes to the kitchen, despite knowing that Mrs. Vecchio's rules of hospitality wouldn't allow a guest to wash them himself.

Here, although still audible, the voices were muffled; the distinct words disappeared into a background hubbub that Chicago-dwelling was slowly teaching him to ignore. It was not quiet, but there was, at least, breathing space.

Usually this room, too, was full of Ray's family. Children would be racing in and out, or sprawled across the floor surrounded by toys and crayons. The adults would be carrying on the same multitude of conversations currently in play around the dinner table, but with voices pitched to carry over the television or radio.

Empty of activity, the room felt oddly half-finished, as though without people it lost its purpose. But even so, there was the illusion of company--the room was filled with photographs. They spilled across the mantel; the frames clustered so closely together that the foremost obscured others from even the smallest distance. The few formal pictures taken in studios were outnumbered amateur snapshots: smiling group pictures taken by Christmas trees or barbeque grills overlapped with photographs of children playing and adults laughing. Some held younger versions of Ray, Francesca, and Maria. He recognized a few of the people in the other photographs but not nearly all of them. Two large wedding pictures dominated the back row: Maria and Tony, and Ray's mother with his late father. Almost completely hidden behind the older of the two was a smaller frame--all that was visible of its photograph was a smooth stone wall and the slope of a shoulder clothed in a bright, multicolored shirt.

Careful not to knock over the other frames, he picked the photograph up. Ray... and Ben. Ray was leaning close, his head over Ben's shoulder, and grinning straight into the camera. Blank faced, Benton was staring straight ahead not so much at the camera as past it.

A similar photograph could have been taken at any number of times since he'd first come to Chicago. It was far from unusual for Ray to turn up at the consulate while he was on guard duty, nor was it unusual for tourists to snap a photograph. The presence of an unfamiliar uniform seemingly transformed a fairly ordinary building into a landmark. And yet, Benton felt absolutely certain that he knew when this particular photograph had been taken. But he couldn't imagine how Ray would have acquired a copy.

Finding a nameless pair of tourists in a city the size of Chicago would be a difficult task under the best circumstances. But surely Ray wouldn't have had time to track them down before their disastrous visit to Drake's apartment--and afterwards he would have been in hospital.

"Found that one, did you?" Ray had slipped into the room unnoticed. Little wonder--even now, Ben found it difficult to look away from the photograph. Ray stepped close behind him, looking over his shoulder. His hand came to rest on Ben's opposite shoulder as though for balance. A small smile played across his face as he reached for the photograph and Ben reluctantly surrendered it.

"How on earth did you get this?"

"Ah, Benny, you know a magician never reveals his secrets." At Ben's incredulous expression, he laughed and admitted, "Leann Brighton. When I checked out of the hospital, I went to badger someone into giving me your address--and she just handed me all the info I needed and this photo, saying it had been dropped off at the consulate and maybe I wouldn't mind getting it to you."

"But you kept it."

He felt Ray's shrug more than saw it. "I didn't know you'd be coming back. And it wasn't like Chicago had shaped up to be such a great memory for you. Anyway, then you did come back, and I already had the photo, and... you're family, you know. Even if Ma won't let you in her kitchen."

To say that he hadn't known seemed ungrateful. He closed his eyes and leaned into the arm slung warm across his shoulders. The arm tightened briefly, and he felt a phantom brush against his temple, there and gone so quickly that it could almost have been imagined. Then Ray was turning him towards the dining room.

"C'mon. Fifteen more minutes, tops, and we can cut out."


End file.
